I stood feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind my back and watched morosely as the headmaster shuffled across his study. He paused at a hat stand. It contained no hats, nor coats. Instead a single curve-handled whippy rattan school cane dangled. He coughed slightly before stretching up his right arm to unhook it.

I took a deep breath. I knew how this scene was about to play out. He grasped the cane in his fist and turned to face me. He swiped the cane through the empty air; it made a terrific swooshing sound as it flew.

He scrunched up his face and peered across the room at me. In my mind’s eye I can still see him clearly, fifty-five years after the event.

He swished the cane once more and then craning his neck forward towards me he gripped the cane between his two hands. It was a standard pose, a cliché almost. He flexed the cane. It was more than three feet long and as thick as a pencil. Even at a distance I could see many notches along its length. In the right hands this would be a terrible weapon. And, the headmaster had those hands.

His penetrating stare never left me. His receding hairline reminded me of Dracula, but without the fangs. His pasty jowls and heavy bags under the eyes gave him the air of one who carried the troubles of the whole world on his shoulders. Perhaps, he felt he did. He flexed the cane thoughtfully. Then he spoke.

“This is for your own good,” he rasped. Later in my own adulthood I would recognise the cigarettes and whiskey in such a voice. He waved the cane in my direction in case I hadn’t understood the import of his words. I begged to differ, but kept my counsel and heard him out.

“You have been spoken to before,” he wobbled the cane some more. “You are lazy and do not work hard.”

He was wrong, I was not lazy I was bored; it wasn’t the same thing. I was eighteen; too old for school. I should have been somewhere else. I knew many men who remained schoolboys most of their lives, they never grappled with adulthood. I was not one of them.

“Unless you buckle down to your studies,” the headmaster intoned, “You will not pass your examinations.” He laid great stress on the word examinations, stringing it out as if it consisted of six syllables. I remained silent, I knew he didn’t want to hear what I had to say. “You will not get a university place and then where shall you be?”

University place! Nobody had asked if I wanted to go to university. Everyone, the masters at school, my parents, my brothers my pals, they all assumed I wanted to go to university. Looking back, I can’t say I can blame them. It was that kind of school, it existed to get boys to university. It had no other function. If a boy did not go “up” as we called it in those days, he was a failure. Irredeemable. Hopeless. Without worth.

“This is for your own good,” he said once more. Still I was unconvinced. Perhaps, it was for his good. I can see him now, his shoulders hunched, his sad grey eyes often with a distant, wistful look. Dandruff flaked the shoulders of his tatty academic gown. Buttons of his waistcoat strained against his paunch. His tweed trousers strained at his stomach. Today we might call his look “seedy.”

He swished that goddam cane once more. “You will thank me for this one day,” he said with no hint of irony. “This might be the saviour of you.”

Did he really believe what he said? Could he hear himself? Imagine it was today. A headmaster, a man probably well into his fifties; older possibly. Instructing an eighteen-year-old boy to prepare himself to bend over so that the headmaster might lash him across the backside with a cane. You could see the social workers, the law courts, the newspaper headlines.

But this is now; that was then. Nobody much thought it odd. I certainly didn’t. It was simply the way things were. Schoolmasters, doctors, priests, you name them, they could do what they liked. The deference to our betters was boundless.

The headmaster shuffled closer to me, I watched him conscious that my heart was racing faster than I should have liked. I wanted this over with. I was determined to make minimum fuss. To let him have his way.

“Hang up you blazer,” it was a curt command. I was annoyed that my fingers fumbled over such a simple task. At last I had it where moments before the cane had been hanging. “Lower your trousers.” It was a curt command, one the headmaster expected to be obeyed – without question.

It was not unexpected. Senior boys were always swished trousers down. I know what you’re thinking. Today, we would cry “pervert” or even worse. In those days it was to be expected. We never got it bare-arsed, like at some schools. There had been a court case around that time of a housemaster at an expensive, elite “public” school who had been up before the magistrate after he gave one of his charges a stiff six across the naked buttocks. He was cleared of all charges. “He must be acquitted,” the Beak had said, “Else we should have half the housemasters in England up before the bench.”

I was to be spared the ultimate indignity of showing the headmaster my manhood. Pants, I suppose, afforded a certain amount of modesty. I don’t suppose a caning with my Y-fronts at my ankles would have been any more painful.

I struggled with my belt, those darned fumbling fingers again. At last I had it loosened with the top button of my trousers. They were made of some heavy wool mixture (I think) which may have been why the headmaster made us remove them. Once I had undone the top two buttons of my fly, they slipped down my thighs and snagged at my knees. I spread my legs slightly and they slithered down and fell into a puddle at my feet.

“Bend over. Touch your toes,” again a bit of a cliché. I wonder how many schoolboys of my era heard those dreaded words uttered by his head or some other school master. “Head low, bottom high.” That last instruction seems to me superfluous. Surely, it is impossible for a chap to bend over and touch toes without the bottom being high. That, after all, is the object of the exercise.

I knew from painful experience that “toes” meant toes, and not knees or shins. I was quite an athlete in those days and my body was supple. I bent forward and with my knees straight, I stretched my fingers so they brushed the toecaps of my black lace-up shoes. In this position I had a perfect view of the worn rug beneath my feet. I suppose it had once contained a blue pattern; but by this time, after generations of schoolboys had shuffled their feet into position, it was a grimy grey.

It was only now with my legs bare that I felt how cool it was in the study. It would have been March or April and spring had not quite sprung. I shut my teeth firmly together and closed my eyes and waited. The floorboards in the study were as worn as the rug and they creaked loudly as the headmaster circled my body. Once he had examined my submissive body from every conceivable angle, he paused almost directly behind me. I heard him wheeze heavily and once again clear his throat. It sounded like he might be clearing phlegm from the back of his throat.

I shuddered, from the cold or nervousness I do not know, when the headmaster took hold of the tail of my white shirt. In those days shirts had proper tails and this one would have been covering my buttocks and the backs of my thighs. He gripped the cotton hard and dragged the material up my back and left it resting against my shoulders. I shuddered again when the headmaster took hold of the elasticated waist of my underpants. He did not (as I feared he would) drag them to my knees, thus exposing my bare bottom. Instead, he tugged hard so that my pants dug up into my crack and so that the white Y-fronts fitted snuggly like a second skin.

To test this was so, the headmaster circled the palm of his hand firmly around my right buttock cheek. Satisfied there were no creases there, he repeated the manoeuvre on the left. Finally, he landed the open palm of his hand across each cheek, as if to give me encouragement for my ordeal ahead.

The floorboard creaked again and now the headmaster had taken up his position a little to my left. The tip of his cane tapped against my stretched buttocks. He laid it across the centre of both cheeks and tapped some more. He was getting his aim. I closed my eyes tighter and took a deep breath and held it. The cane lifted away from my bum, there was an almighty swishing of air and a loud crack as rattan cane hit flesh. I heard it before I felt it. A split-second passed before a searing, burning sensation lit up my bum. I bit down hard on my bottom lip, my body rocked forward, my feet slipped on the worn rug. The agony was sensational. The headmaster was indeed a “master” with the cane. With many years of experience he had developed the knack of inflicting maximum pain to a boy with seemingly minimum effort.

He hacked out a cough and took his aim once more. The cane sought out the underside of my buttocks, at that most sensitive spot where the buttocks meet the thigh. It was also what we called “the sit-upon spot”, that part that connected with the chair you sat down. If the cane lashed there you would feel it for hours (at least) later, whenever you tried to sit down.

The headmaster caught me a beauty and before I had time to feel it he landed a second right next to it. I now had a throbbing strip of agony about an inch wide running the entire length of my bum. I could feel the welts rising. The floorboards creaked. The headmaster was taking a walk. I was too concerned with the agony in my arse that was throbbing out in all directions through my body to pay him much attention. My hair was soaked with sweat, my heart pounded and my temples pulsated just as intensely as my backside.

It seemed an eternity before I felt the headmaster place his whippy rattan cane across my bum once more. This time, he went higher; to the top of the globs, closer to the spine. He was determined that no square inch of my rear end would escape his administrations.

Swish! Crack! Ouch!

I had been determined not to make a fuss but stroke number four knocked the wind out of me, my mouth gaped open and then closed and repeated the movement until I resembled a goldfish out of water. Air hissed through my (now no longer shut) teeth and I let out an immense groan of pain. I couldn’t help myself; it was a reflex action, my body’s natural way of coping with the pain.

Miraculously, I held my position, back arched, fingertips on toes, knees straight. Two more strokes to go.

I heard him move his position and felt the cane explore my buttocks from a different angle. Oh My God! Sweet Jesus! Before he had aimed across my cheeks from left to right, delivering four parallel lines of pain. Now he was going from the lower part of my left cheek across to the top of the right. A diagonal. The Brute! Crack, it was the hardest stroke yet. It went at a speed of a million miles a second and landed across the four throbbing welts. I shrieked and jumped to my feet, hands gripping my ripped bum. I bounded from foot to foot while simultaneously howling. I must have looked like I was doing some Red Indian (sorry, Native American) dance. I bent double, knees buckled, puffing for breath. Tears streamed down my cheeks.

The headmaster watched me from a distance, a half smile of satisfaction, cracking his heavy jowls. He flexed his cane and pointed it towards the spot where until a moment ago I had been bending. “We have not finished. Resume the position.”

If looks could kill I am certain he would have died on the spot. My bum was red raw, it felt like I had sat in a bathtub of scalding water. I couldn’t take any more. The headmaster glowered. “Bend over.”

With a superhuman determination I first straightened myself and then limped back to my position on the rug. Despite my trembling I parted my legs and bent forward. I could not believe how red the backs of my hands were. My blood pressure must have been off the scale.

I waited for the final stroke. Of course, the bastard laid his cane across the opposite diagonal, lifted it high and completed the perfect “X” across my bum. I don’t know how I managed it but I stayed down, touching toes, until the headmaster intoned, “Stand!”

I jumped to my feet. I couldn’t look the headmaster in the eye. My bum was beyond painful. The agony was so intense I could no longer feel it. I suppose that’s what athletes mean when they say they went beyond the “pain barrier.”

Without waiting for further instructions I hauled up my trousers and as best I could in the circumstances, I buttoned up.

The headmaster laid his cane down on his large walnut desk. He seemed a little unsteady on his feet. His face was deathly white when he turned to me and said, “That was for your own good. You will thank me for this one day.”

It wasn’t and I didn’t. I failed my exams and never went up to the varsity.

The headmaster puffed out his cheeks and frowned. His bushy white eyebrows knotted, he drew in a sharp breath and studied the two pupils standing before him. Duncan Richards and Paul Clarke shuffled their feet nervously as the Old Man jawed them.

“You are senior boys. Prefects even. You know the rules. You are expected to enforce them,” he leaned back in his chair and peered over the top of his spectacles. “You do not leave the school premises during the day. We are responsible for you at all times,” he watched closely, delighted that the two miscreants were blushing, suitably embarrassed. “What would have happened if you were involved in an accident?” He didn’t pause for an answer, the was on a roll. “Your parents would be very worried indeed.”

He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the large mahogany desk. “You know the rules,” he repeated, his eyes blinking furiously. “I am a fair man. I treat every boy equally,” he steepled his fingers. “Be they first or sixth-formers.”

Paul risked a sideways glance at his pal, he didn’t like where this was going. Duncan stared at the dark blue carpet beneath his feet. “So,” the headmaster eased himself to his feet, “I am going to beat you both.” Duncan’s head shot upwards, startled by the news. “A fair man,” he thought but dared not say aloud, “I wouldn’t mind if you were unfair now.”

He watched miserably as the headmaster made his way across the study, for a man of such weight and proportions he made an unexpectedly nimble movement. He halted at a tall thin cupboard and delved into his pocket. Duncan could not meet his pal’s eye. This could not be happening. Could it?

The headmaster found a key and inserted it into the lock and opened the cupboard door. Paul was no stranger to the headmaster’s study and was very aware what it was that was making the hollow rattling sound. The headmaster sighed as he withdrew a long thin crook-handled cane. He pushed the door closed with his elbow and turned to face the two eighteen year olds. He flexed the cane between his hands taking its measure; an entirely unnecessary action since he knew the properties of this little beauty only too well. Hardly thirty minutes earlier it had left six distinct marks across the tightly stretched Teryelne-covered rear end of an habitual smoker.

“Six.” The headmaster announced if the solemnity of a judge sending a man to the gallows. The two teenagers shuffled their feet as their faces paled at the totally expected news. “Richards, face the wall. Clarke,” he pointed his cane to a spot in the centre of the study, “Stand there.” Moments later all three were in their allotted places. The headmaster swished the cane. Once, then once again. He was not quite ready to go, his eyebrows were once again knotted he appeared to be wrestling with a problem. Swish. Swish. He took a deep breath, he had made up his mind.

“Lower your trousers and bend over.”

Duncan Richards until now obediently standing with his nose an inch from the pale blue patterned wallpaper turned around aghast. He saw his pal’s mouth open and close, but no words were uttered. If he had intended to protest, he quickly thought better of it. With tremendous fortitude (Duncan thought) he unbuckled his belt and opened the front of his pale-grey trousers. The weight of the keys in his pocket sent them slithering to his ankles. He took a look around the study as if trying to find his bearings and satisfied that he truly was in the headmaster’s study and this wasn’t a dream. Then he leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees.

“Right over, boy. Touch your toes,” the headmaster barked, unafraid to show his intense irritation. Duncan watched his pal separate his feet and stretch down so that his fingertips brushed the toecaps of his black lace-up shoes. His back was arched, his knees slightly bent and his bottom poked out at an angle. Duncan had never before noticed that Paul’s bum was firm and pert. His white cotton briefs clung to the contours of his cheeks.

The headmaster was nearly ready to go, but first he tucked his cane under his arm and approached the submissive teenager. Using both hands he took hold of the tail of Paul’s gleaming white shirt and rolled it along with his grey pullover up the boy’s back, exposing an inch of bare hairless flesh. He slipped the cane into his hand and took a step back, then he laid the thin whippy rattan cane across the centre of Paul’s underpants. He had a terrific target and he was taking his aim.

Paul bit his bottom lip and closed his eyes. Swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish. Jesus. Fuck. Ouch. Oooooh. Hisssssss. Ow, ow, ow. With tremendous fortitude the boy kept in position, held low, bottom high, fingertips on toes. That hurt! That hurt a lot. It felt like his bum was on fire. The headmaster hadn’t laid on a sound six-of-the-best, he had pressed a white hot wire deep into his flesh. His arse was on fire.

“Stand up. Get dressed. Stand by the wall. Richards take his place.” The headmaster swished his cane and watched unable and not unwilling to show his deep satisfaction on a job well down. The boy’s bottom would be roasting. He had landed the strokes low down, the agony of the six deep cuts would reignite each time he sat down for many hours to come. Paul wriggled in pain as he pulled his trousers over his raw buttocks and pulled the belt tight. He suspected his eyes were moist and he had no desire for his pal to see him in this state so he kept his head low as he passed Duncan on his way to the wall.

Duncan had witnessed his friend’s punishment, he knew exactly what was going to happen. Even so, he stood and waited for the headmaster’s command. “Lower your trousers. bend over. Touch your toes.” Resolute not to show himself up in front of his friend, and just as determined not to give the headmaster any satisfaction, he quickly had his trousers at his feet. He bent forward and waited. Touching toes is not as easy as it looks. It put a terrible strain on he backs of Duncan’s thighs. He shivered involuntarily as the headmaster pulled his shirt up his back and then (unexpectedly) he took hold of the waistband of his white Y-fronts and pulled hard so that all creases were removed from the cloth and his pants fitted like a second skin.

“You have not been to me before Richards,” the headmaster who never forgot a bottom, stated. “Is this you first caning?” “Yes, sir,” Duncan spoke to the carpet. “Well, it will be quite an experience for you,” the headmaster sneered. “And, eighteen years old,” he added smugly.

It would be Duncan’s first caning, but he was no stranger to spanking. His father was a fervent advocate of corporal punishment; the influence of a small church he followed religiously. Duncan and his two elder brothers often felt father’s belt across their naked backsides. He sucked in his breath as he felt the tip of the cane tap against his stretched flesh.

It was over in seconds. Six almighty swipes. One after the other. Rat-tat-tat like machinegun fire. He had never experienced pain like it. Nothing his father had ever delivered prepared him for the hurt.

“Stand up. Get dressed.” Duncan rose furiously massaging his burning bum. It hurt so much, he couldn’t wait until he was properly dressed and away from the study. He needed to rub away the agony. Now, and he couldn’t care less who saw him do it. The headmaster laid the cane on his desk. “You are dismissed,” he intoned and took much pleasure as the pair sped from the room. He knew very well they would be dashing down the passageway to the senior boys’ lavatories to inspect the damage. He very much hoped they would award him the maximum ten points for the effectiveness of his beating.

….

Mr Richards placed the handset on the cradle and waddled out of the room in search of his wife. “Hilda!” he called and she answered him from the kitchen. “I just got off the phone from Paul Clarkes’ father, he tells me his son and Duncan were caned by the headmaster today. Playing truant. He says Duncan was the ringleader.”

“Oh dear,” his wife dried her hands on her wrapround apron. “Trouble at school …” She let her sentence trail of into silence. Both she and her husband knew what that meant.

“Call him down will you please. Well do this in the sitting room,” Mr Richards ran his thumbs across the belt holding up his trousers. It was a narrow thin affair, constructed of plastic. “That won’t do at all,” he tutted silently. “Not at all.”

He heard footsteps padding down the carpeted staircase. He looked into the hallway to see his son standing, a little dumbfounded. Clearly, his mother had not told him the reason for his summons. “Wait in the sitting room,” Mr Richards spoke clearly and calmly. He never believed in histrionics. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

He ascended the stairs slowly, his immense stomach rolling as he went. Breathless, he reached his bedroom and pushed open the door. This shouldn’t take a moment. He waddled across the room and halted before a large wardrobe with double doors. He turned a key in the lock and the right hand door eased open on its own. Inside the rail was heaving with clothes. His on the right hand side, hers on the left. He reached up and felt in the dark and his hand brushed against a heavy leather strap. “Just the fellow,” he whispered. In seconds he was fingering a thick wide leather belt. “Yes, the very thing.” He knew it would pack a punch.

He doubled it up in his hand testing the weight. There was no reason to do this, it was no stranger to him. The sheen on the leather had long since worn away. This little beauty had seen action in its time. He had successful seen three sons into adulthood. Only Duncan now remained.

He shuffled back across the room and at a snail’s pace inched his way down the stairs. Duncan’s eyes widened. Dad had his belt in his hand; it meant only one thing.

“Paul Clarke’s father rang …” His dad need say no more. Matters must take their course. His father’s eyes narrowed. “You know what to do.” Indeed he did. It was a rule of the house. Clearly stated and known by all Mr Richards’ sons. You get punished at school, you get punished again at home. Mr Richards waved his belt in the general direction of the small sitting room. “In there,” he wheezed, and added for emphasis, “Now!”

Sorrowfully, Duncan turned on his heels and slowly, as befitting a condemned man, he edged into the room. It was a small space, with the dining room table and four chairs there was little room for much else. Small it might be, but there was enough room to swing a belt. It was a small terraced house, similar to thousands, hundreds of thousands probably, in towns and cities up and down the land.

Duncan stood quietly. There was nothing to say. Dad was in control. He ruled his own castle. They had both been here before. He heard voices through the wall from the house next door. The Robinsons were settled down watching Crossroads on the television. “Come on, you know what to do. Get ready! Trousers and pants down across the table! Anybody would think this was your first time.” His father’s voice was harsh as he waved the belt through the air.

Slowly, Duncan obeyed the command. Not looking at his father, he walked slowly towards the old rickety table. This would hurt, and hurt a lot. A strapping on top of the still fresh cane marks would be agony. Each lash of the leather would reignite the welts across his backside. His black jeans fitted snugly so he had no use for a belt. He popped the rivet at the waist and tugged down the zip. Oh how he hated for his father to see his cock and balls. He turned his back slightly on him and taking a firm hold of the waistband of his Levis he quickly pulled both jeans and briefs down just far enough to expose his buttocks. Before Dad could glimpse his privates he fell forward and rested his forearms on the table top.

The table was low and Duncan quite tall so he had to arch his back and jut out his bare backside at an angle to present himself submissively to the lashing. He closed his eyes and waited. He knew Dad would take his time. He heard a low wheezing sound as Mr Richards got himself into position. “Well, these are a fine set of marks,” Dad said admiringly. “That headmaster of yours certainly knows his onions.” Duncan winced, he certainly did not need reminding of that. His buttocks quivered as his father’s hand traced the welts that ran left to right across the naked flesh. “Yes,” Mr Richards repeated, “A very fine set indeed.” He tapped his belt across his son’s bum. “This should set them alight.”

Duncan felt the belt lift away from his bottom. A split second later it returned at speed and force and caught him on the underside of both cheeks. Air hissed through his clenched lips. His mouth opened wide and a faint groan escaped. Before he could regain composure a second, then a third and a fourth cut lashed across his tender rear end. It was on fire. Each stoke of the headmaster’s caning returned to life, aching like crazy to be joined by the new dull throbbing made by the thick, heavy leather belt.

The crack of leather on stretched bottom bounced off the walls of the tiny room echoing two or three times before petering out. Next door, the volume of the television was lowered. Obviously the goings-on at the Richards’ house was more interesting than the Crossroads Motel.

Duncan shut his teeth. His bum hurt. More than the Robinsons might ever have imagined. Then there was a short respite as Dad took a breather. Duncan could hear him breathing heavily with his exertions. Then he was off again. Splat! The leather exploded once more across the teenager’s buttock cheeks delivering a searing sting that took his breath away. Before he could regain his wind he felt another stinging band and he bucked frantically and his legs danced. Duncan’s dad made sure the strap toasted every square of his son’s buttocks which were by now blazing, burning, stinging mounds of flesh.

Dad twisted his own flabby body and sent the leather scorching into the underside of Duncan’s buttocks. With his son’s upturned bottom in front of him, Mr Richards could choose his target with great accuracy. The eighteen-year-old’s bare bum made a terrific target.Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! It was a long, thorough whipping, deep and cleansing. It was slow but steady with each stroke precisely placed.

“Enough!” Dad wheezed. He had to stop. If the truth be told he was suffering in his own way as much as his son. If he didn’t halt now he might have a heart attack, or at least a stroke. Duncan’s eyes shone. His rear end throbbed. His heart raced, blood flew through his arteries. His ears felt like they would burst. His lungs were raw. His body was thoroughly beaten; but he had lived. Gingerly, he rose from the table, carefully, so his Dad could not see his half-erect penis, he pulled his jeans and briefs up before stamping one foot after the other. He desperately wanted to rub away at his scorching buttocks, but as any spanked boy would tell you there’s an etiquette to these things. No matter how much you hurt, never let your punisher know. He had let himself down earlier in the headmaster’s study, he didn’t want to do that again. The rubbing would have to wait until he was back in his bedroom. For now, he hopped up and down, rather like football players did when they had been kicked up in the air by an opponent. It didn’t help.

“Go,” Dad gasped. “And keep out of trouble at school in future.” Duncan flew from the room, took the stairs two at a time and hurled himself through his bedroom door and face down onto his bed. He buried his face in a pillow and sobbed his guts up.

Downstairs, his mother busied herself in the kitchen. She lit a match and got the gas going. Soon they could relax with a nice cup of tea. She hoped her husband would recover his breath soon.

Clint Chapman woke up with a start and an aching bladder. If he did not get to a toilet very soon he would have an embarrassing accident.

Geoff Dawson lay beside him; breathing heavily; in a deep sleep. This would be tricky, Clint was pinned against the wall; Geoff blocked his way. It was a single bed; no more than a child’s size really. There was no alternative; he would have to climb over the sleeping boy.

“War… war … what’s up,” Geoff woke with a start.

“Sorry, I’ve got to have a whiz,” Clint was already climbing over the boy’s body.

Geoff switched on the table lamp. It was three in the morning.

Clint was out of the bed. “Where are my pants?” He was stark naked.

Geoff ducked under the bedclothes to search for them.

“Don’t worry. Too late, no time,” and without a stitch of clothing on his body, Clint dashed through the door to the bathroom.

With his bladder emptied and his penis dutiful rinsed, Clint felt much calmer. Now, he could return to the fifteen-year-old schoolboy tucked up in bed. Clint’s penis perked at the prospect of another round of hot sex with the blond boy who waited for him.

He opened the bathroom door.

“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house?” There was a commanding figure, tall, grim, stiff-backed, wrapped in a woollen dressing gown, standing on the landing.

Clint blinked in the poor light at the man who was now blocking his pathway. The man’s moustache bristled as his steely-grey eyes burned into Clint’s body.

Clint’s face brightened to the colour of beetroot and he placed his hands strategically in front of his dangling privates.

“Are you a burglar?”

Clint’s grinned sardonically and shrugged his shoulders as if to say: “A burglar? Naked like this?”

“I’m a friend of Geoff’s, from school,” he said unconvincingly. He was no schoolboy.

The man in the dressing gown, realising his own urgent need to answer a call of nature, pushed his way into the bathroom.

Moments later, Clint back in the bedroom, recounted his chance meeting in the hallway.

“Shit! That’s my father. What did you say?”

“I told him I was a school friend.”

“Do you think he believed you?”

Clint wanted to ask: “Would you?” but knew this would upset the boy.

There was no chance of more sex that night; Clint was certain of that. He delved under the bedclothes, retrieved his mauve bikini briefs and wriggled into them.

“It’s freezing!” He shuddered to emphasise the point, as if Geoff would not believe him. Then he climbed over the boy and resumed his place in the narrow bed, squashed up between the eighteen-year-old and the wall.

The light was off and they were both snuggling under the blankets, when the door swung open. The man in the dressing table, his jaw set in a fierce scowl, thundered into the room.

He switched on the light. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “Who the hell are you?” his purple face betraying the fury he felt.

Clint smiled wanly and waved hello.

“Who is this?” the furious father stormed across the small room to stand by the bed. It looked like at any moment he might drag Clint from beneath the blankets.

Geoff was breathlessly trying to remain calm. His whizzing heartbeat was sending blood coursing through his veins. He desperately hoped he did not look as guilty as he felt.

“This is Clint, he’s a friend from school,” even as the words escaped his lips, he knew his lie would not be believed.

Geoff’s father knew how to intimidate a boy. He had many years of practice as the headmaster of King Egbert’s Grammar School. If he chose to do so he could reduce the most unruly teenager to jelly. He leaned into the bed, “Get out now! You are going home!”

Terrified by this imposing man, Clint pulled the blankets tight across his chest and tried to hide behind the slender body of his companion.

“But father,” Geoff had never called him dad, “it’s the middle of the night, the buses have stopped running.”

“Pah!” Mr Dawson’s explosion sent shudders through both boys.

“Get out of bed now. At once. This instance,” he directed his anger at Clint.

Relieved that he was now wearing his underpants and his penis was once again soft, Clint rose from the bed, climbed across Geoff, and stood alongside Dawson.

“Here put this on,” he scooped up a shirt discarded earlier in haste on the carpet and thrust it at Clint. “Come here!”

Geoff was transfixed with terror. His father was a strong man and there was no telling what he might do.

Taking Clint by the hair he marched him from the room on to the landing, and still holding a tight grip on the hapless intruder, Mr Dawson opened an airing cupboard and took out two blankets.

Then he trudged Clint down the stairs to the lounge.

“Here take these,” he stabbed the blankets into Clint’s chest. “You are sleeping on the sofa. And don’t you dare leave this house until I have dealt with you in the morning!”

Clint, shivering with more than the cold of the early winter’s morning, watched eyes blazing as the man in the dressing gown, stormed from the room and ascended the stairs two at a time in his determination to sort out his son.

Geoff, who had been standing on the top landing while his father berated his lover, dashed back into bed at the sound of his father’s furious footsteps.

The door burst open once again. Geoff fully expected his father to be brandishing one of his school canes.

“Now tell me what’s going on!” he thundered.

Geoff, although relieved that his backside was spared imminent assault, sat terrified on the bed.

“He … he … he’s a friend from school,” he could hardly get the words out. He was not a dishonest boy by nature and the deception he was playing was tearing him apart.

“He missed his last bus, so he was staying the night,” he trailed off, before adding as an afterthought, “That’s all. Really.”

Then, feeling an urgent need not to lapse into silence, he said, “We were sleeping top to tail.”

His father exploded. “Don’t you dare lie to me! I know what’s going on.” Mr Dawson was as terrified as his son, but for entirely different reasons.

“I’m not lying. Honestly, I’m not,” tears were welling up in Geoff’s eyes.

His father’s eyes blazed. He was barely in control.

“Do you want me to come over there and inspect the sheets for stains!”

Even as the words left his lips, Mr Dawson despised his own crudity.

Geoff’s breathing hardened. That would be a humiliation too far. He manoeuvred his bottom slightly to move it away from a damp patch.

Mr Dawson, realising he was losing control, stormed towards the door, but he saw Clint’s jeans on the floor, so scooped them up: that would prevent any escape during the night, he thought.

From the door he thundered back at Geoff. “It’s late; I’ll deal with you in the morning!”

Tears flowed freely. “Deal with” him. His father was a headmaster; Geoff knew exactly what “deal with” him meant. King Egbert’s was a traditional school: traditional lessons, traditional sports and traditional discipline.

The next morning Dawson’s anger had not lessened. He followed his usual morning routine and by seven o’clock, showered and shaved and unannounced, he burst through the lounge room door to confront Clint.

The young man had not slept, his mind in turmoil imagining the ordeal that awaited him. He played out every possible scenario and before breakfast time was over he expected to be locked away in a police cell.

“My son is eighteen years old …” he let the sentence trail off, unable to finish it. But the meaning was clear enough. Clint the older man had seduced his child and had his wicked way with him. The age of consent for homosexuals was twenty-one and Clint was in deep trouble.

The room fell silent. Clint knew it was useless to argue. Dawson would never believe that Geoff had been a more than willing partner. He would not want to know that Geoff had come on to him outside Barnaby’s, a well-known gay haunt in town. And, he certainly would not want to hear that his sweet innocent son Geoffrey was gaining a reputation around Hazeldene as a great lay. He loved to suck cock and he was very good at it.

All of this was left unsaid. Clint had no choice. When the police heard what had happened, he would be the perpetrator, the sex-fiend, the older man who had sexually assaulted a child. He vaguely knew it was statutory rape or something. He was on his way to jail and for a very long time.

“I should call the police!” Dawson still found it impossible to speak at a normal volume. But he made no movement towards the telephone.

Clint stared impassively from beneath his blankets.

It was a bluff. Dawson had no intention of calling the police. He hated this handsome man who had slept with his son, but if the police were involved the events of last night would become a public scandal. It would ruin Geoff’s life and the headmaster would become a laughing stock among the boys at school.

Another course of action was required, and Dawson knew exactly what he wanted to do.

“I should call the police, but I am not entirely sure that is the best solution,” Dawson was starting to sound like the headmaster that he was.

Clint’s sense of relief was pictured in the young man’s bright open face. He was to be spared the law, but he knew this was not yet over.

“Stand up!” It was a command.

Without question, Clint pushed the blankets to one side and rose from the sofa. Dawson eyed the young man up and down. In his time he had seen many naughty boys stand before him, but none were dressed only in a yellow t-shirt and mauve bikini briefs.

“Fold up those blankets. Neatly!” Clint had started to bunch them up but stopped and took care to fold them into four quarters of equal length.

Satisfied at Clint’s obedience, Dawson was ready to move on.

“Stand there, boy!” he pointed to a spot on the carpet in the middle of the room.

Clint did as instructed.

Dawson lectured the twenty-six-year-old. He was a headmaster of many years’ experience and he had many sermons prepared, suitable for any occasion.

Clint stood motionless, like generations of naughty schoolboys before him staring down at the floor, unwilling to meet the eye of his persecutor.

On and on, Dawson preached. He talked about responsibility, cleanliness and manliness. He told Clint he was irresponsible. He needed to control himself. He needed to set an example.

It was a new sensation for Clint, who sometimes believed he had been around the block a few times. He felt his cock stir as the dressing-down from the powerful, commanding, older man went on and on.

Still staring at his feet, Clint swiftly moved his hands in front of his crotch, hoping the headmaster had not seen his stirrings. The bikini briefs fitted so snuggly nothing could be hidden.

Dawson had not noticed. He did not have the slightest interest in this young man’s private parts; he had a different part of Clint’s anatomy in his sights.

At last, the sermon was over.

Clint had not been expecting what happened next.

Dawson walked through the door and returned within seconds. In his hand was a large school cane. He swished it through the air to demonstrate its whippiness and then he wobbled it in front of Clint’s face.

The teenager had never seen a school cane before. This one was more than three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. Close up he could see how the yellow colour deepened at one end. If he had a mind to, he could have counted the ridges along the length of the rattan rod. For some reason that he could not understand, he was transfixed by the cane’s crook handle.

The front of his bikini briefs tightened further.

Dawson had beaten many backsides over the years. He had his own rituals for such occasions. Usually, once he had completed the sermon, he went straight to the action. The boy was ordered to bend over and the thrashing commenced.

That morning was to be no different. Dawson had the arrogance of all headmasters. It did not occur to him that there might be something unusual about the situation he had engineered. He had decided to beat the boy’s backside and the boy’s backside would be beaten.

Clint’s heart was racing. It was obvious where this was leading. The headmaster was going to cane his bottom as if he were one of his thirteen-year-old grammar schoolboys: and Clint wanted him to.

The young man had never been interested in corporal punishment. He knew it turned on some of his friends and he had heard that Geoff was not averse to taking money to go across the knees of an older man for a bare-bottomed spanking. But not Clint. Yet, now, at the point that this older, dominant man was wobbling a cane in his face, he could not wait to show him his arse. He was, quite literally, bursting for it to happen.

Dawson knew none of this. In his world a boy about to be caned awaited his fate with trepidation. Even the boys who made regular trips across the back of his study armchair or desk feared the sting of the rod. No matter how stoical they tried to appear on the outside, inside they were in turmoil.

That was how he imagined Clint was at the moment he barked his order, “Bend over that sofa boy!”

Unnecessarily, since there was only one in the room, he swished the cane in the direction of the sofa.

Clint blushed deep red. Did this middle-aged man really intend to whip him with a school cane?

“Quickly, I have other things to attend to this morning!”

Yes, he did indeed intend to beat his backside, Clint concluded. And, as he walked forward and placed himself face down over the back of the sofa, he conceded, he wanted to let him do it.

This was a new experience for the headmaster. Usually, his target was contained within smart grey flannels: short trousers for the younger boys and long ones for the seniors. Very occasionally the trousers would be bunched at the boy’s ankles and he was offered buttocks enclosed in tight white underpants.

This was the first time Dawson had whipped his cane into mauve bikini briefs.

“Legs further apart, boy. Keep your head low down in the cushion!”

Dawson noticed for the first time that Clint’s body was muscular and gym-honed. Stretched as they were across the sofa, his buttocks appeared to be completely devoid of fat: they were buns of steel. The briefs hardly covered the young man’s cheeks and Dawson could see they were completely hairless, as were his legs.

Dawson saw all this, but was not interested in the boy’s beauty. Dawson had a duty to perform and he was going to do it.

A cane had never been close to Clint’s buttocks before and nor had any other instrument of corporal punishment. Now, his buttocks were offered up to this older, powerful man to do with as he wished. Clint had offered his arse up before, sometimes to a complete stranger, but Dawson had no desire to part Clint’s cheeks and enter him. He wanted to rip them to shreds. And he did.

He had never thrashed a boy so savagely in his entire career in school-mastering. The bikini briefs were useless. Within seconds twelve deep red lines criss-crossed his arse cheeks. Clint howled as the first cut bit deep into his muscular arse and he did not stop yelling and screaming until long after the headmaster laid down his cane.

Upstairs, in his bedroom Geoff buried his head under the bedclothes, unsuccessfully trying to hide away from the events taking place in the lounge. Clint was being put through it. And in a few moments, it would be Geoff’s turn.

At school, once a thrashing was over, another of the rituals took place. Ceremoniously, an entry would be written in the punishment book, the beaten boy would sign his name, and with that done, he would be dismissed, often still in great distress, from the study.

There was no punishment book to be signed this time, but the headmaster wanted the boy out of his sight and out of his house quickly.

Leaving Clint still jumping up and down on the spot trying fruitlessly to rub away the agony from his throbbing bottom, Dawson went to his own bedroom to fetch the man’s jeans. Then he burst into Geoff’s room (he was incapable ever of entering his son’s room quietly) and gathered up the rest of Clint’s clothes.

“I want you dressed and in my study in five minutes,” it was a stern command.

When Dawson reappeared downstairs, Clint had regained some of his composure. His face glistened with tears, but he had wiped most of the snot from his face. His was breathing more evenly and his heart rate had reduced nearly to normal.

“Get dressed,” Dawson threw the clothes on the floor. “Get out of my house!”

Clint did not need to be told a second time. He was through the front door inside a minute. The ache in his arse was intense as he hobbled down the street towards the bus stop. He was grateful the bus driver did not ask why he was standing when so many empty seats were available.

Mr Dawson’s study at home was nothing like the one at St Edgar’s Grammar School. That was wood panelled with a huge oak desk and padded armchairs. His study at home was more modest; it was a spare bedroom with a modern metal desk and a low-backed bucket chair. It was a small room, but quite large enough for Mr Dawson to swing his cane.

Geoff was quick out of bed on his father’s order. He was in enough trouble over last night he did not want to compound that by disobeying his father.

Although it was Saturday, Geoff still had to be at school. He did not attend the grammar school where his father was headmaster. He had won a scholarship to the much grander The Academy, a private school. He was a “day boy” although most of the pupils were boarders. Geoff resented that he had to return home to his parents at the end of each day: the opportunities for sex at night with the boarders must be awesome, he imagined.

In readiness for the classes he would attend later, Geoff began to dress himself in his school uniform. He was buttoning up his grey shirt when he was struck by an idea. Until two years previously when he entered the sixth-form at The Academy he was obliged to wear short trousers. He still had them tucked away in a drawer. If he presented himself to his father dressed in them it might convince him that Geoff was a sweet innocent child who was led astray by an older man.

He stepped into the grey flannel short trousers and pulled them up. He had to wriggle a little to get the waistband button to fasten, but they still fitted him, if a little snugly. He admired his reflection in the mirror: he saw a shortish, blond-haired boy with an arse to die for. He should wear these short trousers one night at The Village, the old queens would blow their fuses, he thought.

Minutes later he was stood contrite in his father’s study. The headmaster was well into his prepared sermon; but it was not the same one he had inflicted on Clint.

“How long have you had these feelings?” he intoned.

Geoff blushed and kept his eyes downcast at the carpet. “Dunno.”

“There are some things you might not quite understand. This friendship you have with Clint,” he said. “It is not, it cannot be a good thing. Do you understand?”

Geoff’s embarrassment was mounting. What was his father talking about?

“Yes, father,” he mumbled, realising that the question had not been rhetorical.

“Feelings such as these are often a by-product of growing up. That is not to say they are not wrong. You are going through a phase, but this is a serious matter and it must be nipped in the bud. Six strokes of the cane, I think should sort you out. You understand don’t you Geoffrey?”

Geoff clenched his jaws tight to stop them gaping. His father’s naivety left him gasping. Did he really believe what he was saying? Perhaps his father was not after all the font of all knowledge, Geoff had supposed him to be.

When instructed, Geoff bent himself over the low bucket chair. He could feel the seat of his short trousers tighten further; his buttocks making the perfect target for his father’s cane.

The eighteen-year-old scrunched his eyes shut, gritted his teeth and clenched his cheeks in anticipation of the terrible pain to come.

His father was not quite ready. Many headmasters are drama queens and he was no exception. To heighten the tension, Dawson took the tail of the boy’s grey shirt and tugged at it until it was clear of the trousers and part way up the boy’s back. It was a freezing morning and Geoff shuddered as cold air connected with his bare skin.

He heard the swish, swish, of the cane as his father took up his position and found his aim.

Six strokes of the cane fell, hard, one after another. Every one was a hefty lash; but no sound came from Geoff. He rose from the chair, his face pale, and his eyes glinting. His father pointed to the door.

“You may go!” he said harshly.

And in silence, Geoff went.

That evening Clint lay on his bed. Downstairs his mother and father were engrossed in a soap opera on the television. In his mind, Clint played out his own drama. He was in the headmaster’s study at St Edgars’s School. In front of him stood Mr Dawson, dressed in a formal academic gown with a mortar-board cap on his head. In his hand he flexed a stout, but very supple, crook-handled cane.

He is fifteen years old, he thinks. He has been caught wanking with other boys behind the bike sheds. The headmaster berates him for his wickedness. He is a dirty, dirty, little boy, Dawson scolds wobbling his cane in Clint’s face.

And, we all know what happens to dirty little boys who cannot keep their hands to themselves, the headmaster preaches.

Clint is wearing a distinctive green and yellow school blazer and his even more distinctive grey short trousers are in a puddle at his feet. On the headmaster’s command, Clint bends over and touches his toes.

Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! Swipe!

The headmaster lays on the cane with all the strength of his arm, which is considerable. Six terrible swipes bring a succession of fearful yells from Clint.

At about the same time Clint reached for a fistful of tissues, Geoff was also at home, on his own bed.

Certain that the coast was clear and he would not be disturbed, he flicked with some melancholy through a porn magazine. He wanted to be in The Village, parading outside of Barnaby’s in his short trousers. For now, it would have to remain a fantasy. He needed to be careful for a while, now his father knew his secrets.

He wriggled a little. The six deep welts across his buttocks were still tender to the touch. He made himself comfortable and unzipped the front of his jeans.

Downstairs in the kitchen his father stared forlornly through the window into the darkened garden beyond.

Mr Williams was known to his neighbours as a man of habits. He left the house sharp at 08.30 hrs each morning (Monday to Friday inclusive) and walked the short distance to the railway station where he caught the 08.47 hrs to his workplace, returning home on the 17.17 hrs and depending on the efficiency of the train service he was back in his house in time for the 18.00 hrs news on the wireless.

He spent Saturday mornings in Brocklehurst town centre purchasing provisions, ensuring his tasks were completed no later than 13.00 hrs. In summer he spent Saturday afternoons working in his garden. On Sundays, whatever the season, he took his place on the end of the third pew from the back at St. Andrew’s Church.

He spoke to no one at the church and rarely to his neighbours. The best they might get from him was a mumbled “Good morning,” if severely pressed. He liked it like that and so did his neighbours; The Avenue was that kind of street.

On Sunday afternoon, like this particular day, he would retire to his back bedroom. There he would divest himself of his overly-formal custom-tailored dark-grey three-piece suit before carefully placing it upon a hanger, which he would then equally as carefully place at the back of a single-sized wardrobe, alongside the shop-bought business suits he wore during the week.

He would stand quite naked, apart from a pair of cream-coloured long johns, and for a moment or two contemplate his sagging frame in the mirror. Before opening a second much larger wardrobe. Flicking through the clothes hanging on the bar, each in a dust proof bag, he would make his selection. Then with the care that was his watchword he would remove each dust bag and lay the garments over the back of a small upholstered armchair.

First, he slipped into the heavy cotton collarless white shirt before unsteadily perching on one leg he pulled on a pair of heavy black twill trousers. He struggled to get a thick dark grey waistcoat to fully button across his rotund stomach. It had been many moons since he had managed to fasten the lower most button. Then, he took hold of a black jacket. This he pulled over his waistcoat. He stretched his arms wide and circled them like windmills; testing that there was sufficient ‘give’ in his clothes.

Almost fully dressed, he wobbled across the room to an ancient battered chest of drawers. He opened the first one and extracted a cardboard wing collar and stud. It was but a moment’s work to get each attached. He was very nearly done. A black tie, no wider than a bootlace, completed the ensemble. In the second drawer down he found a black hat. It was he admitted to himself his pride and joy. It was the authentic thing. Decades old. He had bought it from a retired schoolmaster from the local St. Francis School; a mortar-board cap, a little battered by decades of use. The tassel hanging from one corner was classic. Although both his hands were unsteady he fixed it squarely on his head. His heart thumped hard.

“Nearly there,” he told himself silently. Only one more thing to do before he could get started. He stooped low and tugged at the bottom drawer. It was often a bugger to get open. It stuck as usual. “Damn and blast! What is wrong with the damned thing!” he cursed openly although no one was there to hear. Suddenly, the drawer sprang loose, almost sending him tumbling to the floor and onto his backside.

He breathed deeply and his eyes shone. Almost reverentially he leaned forward, putting both hands into the drawer. He smacked his lips and withdrew his pride and joy. He held it high like an offering at the altar. He beamed as he held in his hands three-and-a-bit feet of whippy rattan cane. He had probably handled the school cane more times than he would like to relate, but that never diminished the thrill he experienced each time he pulled it from the drawer. At first he held it beneath the crook-handle. It was as thick as a pencil and as light as a feather.

He returned to the wardrobe and carefully, for this garment could best be described as delicate (‘tatty’ might be more honest), extracted an authentic schoolmaster’s academic gown. He eased it across his shoulder. He turned and faced the mirror. He flexed the cane between his hands; then he swished it through the open air. In the silence of the room it made a terrific swish as it flew! “Bend over boy! Touch your toes!” he scowled. He swiped the cane once more. His transformation to Dr Selwyn Gerard, Headmaster of Albion School, was complete.

….

Jessop stood in his bright white Y-front underpants. They were brand new and he delighted in rubbing the palm of his hands across his meaty buttocks to luxuriate in the touch of the soft cotton. He picked up his vest. It smelt as fresh as a daisy. He wriggled it over his head. It fitted well if Jessop ignored his growing tummy. He paused, looked round the room and realised there was no mirror. A trifle disheartened, he carried on and reaching over to the table once more and extracted a grey school shirt from a paper wrapper. The shirt was laundered to perfection and as he pulled it on he caught the faint whiff of the starch that had stiffened the collar.

Once dressed he picked up his short trousers. They were mid-grey and properly short. Collywobbles fluttered in his stomach when he athletically stepped first into the left leg and then the right. He pulled them tight and buttoned up. He could not see himself but he knew his face was glowing; blood coursed through his arteries and his fingertips tingled.

He and found his school tie. It was black-and-white diagonal stripes, the Albion School colours. Without a mirror, Jessop had to make several attempts to knot the tie to the expected satisfaction of Dr Gerard. Then, the tongue of the tie had to hang down to rest comfortably on his tummy.

He cursed that there was no mirror. He turned to the window hoping to see his reflection, then with alacrity dodged back into the room when he saw a man in the street walking a dog. Disappointed, he fell into a sumptuous leather armchair to pull up his woollen stockings. They were so very long they reached up his thighs and there was hardly an inch of flesh left uncovered between sock and short trousers. He folded over the black-and-white tops of the stockings until they rested just below the knees.

Soon he was in his shiny black lace-up Clarke’s shoes. Now, he was almost ready: only two more items to put on and he would be fully dressed. The school blazer was draped over a heavy wooden coat-hanger. Andrew caressed the lapel between his finger and thumb. The quality of the cloth was superb. He picked up the garment and smelled its freshness. It was a black blazer with white braiding; simple elegance, he thought. Finally, he took hold of the black-quartered woollen cap and carefully placed it squarely on his head.

Jessop was ready.

….

Dr Selwyn Gerard, admired his vision in the mirror. His heart beat thirteen to the dozen. He tucked his whippy rattan cane under his arm and turned to a small cupboard in the corner of the room. His secret stash! He poured himself a small measure of whisky from a chunky decanter, downed it in one, and proceeded from the room.

Moments later he was across the passageway and in his study. The room had been designed as a bedroom in a family house but Dr Gerard had no need for family. Long ago he had converted the room to a study. It was sparsely furnished. There was an ancient desk, a glass-fronted bookcase (complete with school textbooks long ago purchased from a charity shop), an umbrella stand, two hardback chairs and a splendid leather armchair.

He sat himself down behind his desk. The top was empty, save for a blotting pad and an inkwell. He rested his cane down, and waited. Moments later there was a timid knock on the door. Dr Gerard took a deep breath, his palms were sweaty so he rubbed them against his academic gown. He cleared his throat and with an authoritative air, called, “Come!” He watched as the handle twitched, the door slowly inched open, and the top of a school cap appeared, then halted.

“There boy!” Dr Gerard snapped, clicking his fingers and pointing to a spot on the carpet in front of his desk. Jessop shuffled forward and stood placing his hands behind his back while hopping from foot to foot. His eyes were downcast. Dr Gerard surveyed the scene before him and growled, “Stand up straight boy! Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

Jessop straightened a little. He was no star of the Officers’ Training Corp and he could no more stand to attention with thumbs in line with the seam of his trousers as fly. He stared at a photograph of the school rugby team an inch or so above the headmaster’s head.

“Jessop, Jessop, Jessop,” Dr Gerard sighed as if the boy before him represented all the troubles in the world, “What are we to do with you?”

“I have reports from your housemaster. You have absconded from school twice. The first time you were punished by Mr Corlett. Now, you have absented yourself again and this time you were found at the travelling fair!” He paused for effect. “What are we to do with you?”

“Don’t know sir,” Jessop replied again.

“Don’t you,” Dr Gerard scowled, looking down at the cane on his desk, “Don’t you really?” Jessop paled. He entwined his fingers behind his back and looked down at the desk. “Oh sir,” he whimpered.

“Oh sir, indeed!” Dr Gerard was in his element. “You leave me very little choice Jessop.” He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers and glared at the boy. “None at all.” He wiped his sweaty palms once more. “Come on boy, let’s get on with it. You know what is expected.”

Jessop bit his bottom lip, his feet were rooted to the floor but he twisted his body so he could scan across the room. The headmaster read his mind. “I think we’ll have you by the door Jessop.”

“Oh sir.” Jessop was a boy of few words. He stood miserably as the headmaster hauled himself from his chair. “Stand there!” he commanded, pointing to the door. Jessop grimaced. There wasn’t anything he could say. What was the point? He had been caught bang to rights. Dr Gerard was the headmaster and he, Jessop, was the pupil. Matters must take their course.

Dr Gerard picked up the cane and delighted when colour drained from Jessop’s face. He swiped the cane through the air. “Bend over, touch your toes.” Jessop’s mouth opened and closed as if he were about to protest. “Something to say about the matter, Jessop?” the headmaster snarled.

“No sir. Sorry sir.” Jessop turned his back on his tormentor and in one athletic movement he spread his legs, bent forward and pressed his fingertips against the toes of his shoes. He knew from experience with Dr Gerard that “ touch your toes” meant just that; not shins or knees. Jessop looked down at the dark grey carpet. He breathed deeply. This would hurt. This would hurt a lot.

He felt his short trousers and Y-front underpants stretch across his buttocks; he was presenting the headmaster with a terrific target. He felt the stout whippy cane tap against the underside of his cheeks. “Let’s say twelve shall we Jessop,” Dr Gerard said calmly. There was a pause and for a moment Jessop wondered if he were expected to reply. Perhaps he was being asked to bargain, “Oh no sir,” he could say, “I think six would be quite sufficient.” Or, he might even be expected to say, “Oh for a second offence I should get eighteen. Would you prefer it if I also lowered my trousers and underpants?”

The headmaster did not expect a reply. He took his aim, lifted the cane away from the stretched buttocks so that it made an arc and brought it bouncing down with much vigour do that it bit deep into Jessop’s bottom. The boy shut his teeth and screwed his eyes tightly shut, but beyond that he made no movement.

Dr Gerard watched thoughtfully. He admired a boy who could take a beating stoically. It made his job so much easier. He set cut number two thwacking into the very centre of both cheeks so that a dark welt immediately rose across the fleshiest part of Jessop’s bum. His knees buckled slightly with the fierce impact, but still the boy could take it. In truth, Jessop was no novice to the cane. His bottom was beaten on a regular basis. Rarely had the marks disappeared after a thrashing than he was presenting his bottom for punishment once again.

The echo of thwacks three and four delivered in quick succession echoed around the study. The headmaster paused to admire his handiwork. The marks of the cane were clearly visible embedded into the tight cloth of the short trousers. “Good aiming!” he silently congratulated himself.

Dr Gerard positioned his feet. When he had judged that the hurt was ebbing away from Jessop’s bottom: Swipe! The next cut struck home, maybe a half inch below the others; but there was still plenty of room on the boy’s bottom for lots more strokes. By the time he had finished the whole of Jessop’s bottom, from the top of the mounds, across the very apex of the cheeks and into the fleshiest underside where the bum nearly meets the thighs would be covered with perfectly parallel lines. That was only if the boy was able to maintain his position manfully under the onslaught.

Jessop rocked on the balls of his feet; his mouth opened and closed, but he made no sound. A sharp pain attacked his rear, but very quickly it turned to a warm glow.

Jessop had a high pain threshold. He could take a beating stoically. But Dr Gerard knew how to lay on a caning with some vim. The pain in Jessop’s backside mounted as each successive stroke connected with his jutting backside. His heart raced, blood coursed through his arteries, he found it difficult to catch his breath.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Dr Gerard’s heart raced, perspiration ran down his spine; he was finding it hard to catch his breath. Jessop wriggled his hips, his bum was on fire. This was one heck of a caning. He tensed, hoping he could withstand this onslaught. The cane tapped once more across his bottom. He took a deep breath.

Suddenly, the chimes of a doorbell rang out. Dr Gerard stopped mid-stoke. He harrumphed! Through his outstretched legs, Jessop watched as the headmaster shuffled to the window and ensuring he could not be seen from outside, he peered through. A man was standing at the front door, looking rather irate.

Mr Williams winced and turned to the boy who was still obediently touching his toes. “Did you park your car in front of number twenty-six again?” he groaned.

Like this:

Ralph stood at the bus stop bracing himself against the wind, his thumbs gingerly traced the contours of his buttocks through the folds of his grey short trousers. The pain had almost gone now but if would reignite when he pressed against the six raised welts that ran across his bum in the pattern of a five-bar gate.

The bus wouldn’t arrive for another fifteen minute. He had already missed an important appointment. This day would all end in tears.

He pulled his smart red school blazer tight across his chest, the wind was picking up. There was nothing he could do about his bare knees. Short trousers! In winter. He still could not got get over the absurdity of it. At his age.

Why had nobody made a serious complaint when the new headmaster decreed out of nowhere that all the boys would be put back into short trousers. All of them, from the first formers to the most senior boys. It would make the school distinctive, he had said. Ralph’s widowed mother had nodded sagely when he delivered the news. She was a timid woman and never liked to make a fuss. Oh how he despised her.

So, that was that. The whole school back in short trousers. The lads in the village thought it was a hoot. He had enough trouble with them because he had won a scholarship to the posh independent grammar school. His smart red blazer gave him away wherever he went. That was bad enough, but short trousers; they never let him hear the end of it.

He rubbed his bottom some more; it felt rather good. And that was another thing, Dr Anderson had bought back the cane. No one was quite sure if corporal punishment had officially been banned, but definitely it had fallen into disuse.

Ralph had no idea if the boys’ behaviour had worsened because there was no caning; or indeed if it had improved since the good doctor had commenced swishing backsides. Naturally, the story went round the school that Anderson enjoyed beating their buttocks. Certainly, he did it all he time. He flew into the school like some occupying force. At once pronouncements were made; rules were published; a list of ‘caning offences’ drawn up.

The doctor took no prisoners. Not even the sixth-formers as Ralph could testify. Smoking cigarettes. That was top of the list of caning offences. In the school’s eyes smoking was a bigger crime than murder or rape. Looking back Ralph could see he only had himself to blame; he should have known the doctor was deadly serious.

Now Ralph understood times had really changed. Caning. Sixth-formers. For smoking. Since time immemorial it had been accepted that sixth-formers went behind the pavilion by the playing fields for a quick drag at lunchtime. Always had done; always would. Not any longer. He, along with two pals, had been caught that lunchtime puffing on Woodbines, by Mr Tompkins, the most junior of the physical ed. masters. What a sod. He dobbed them in to the head of sixth-form and he passed their case up the line. Why! They’re sixth-formers for pity’s sake. Eighteen years old. Adults. In the world outside school it was legal to smoke at sixteen. Try telling that to Dr Anderson.

“You deliberately broke the rules,” he intoned as the three boys stood uneasily, hands behind backs, eyes downcast in the headmaster’s study. “You were fully aware of my edict against smoking cigarettes,” he steepled his fingers and leaned back in his padded chair. Dr Anderson was younger than he looked. His pate was almost entirely bald, save for tusks of snowy-white hair at the temples, his nose and chin were so pointed they almost met, his cold grey eyes could pierce armour.

Ralph listened solemnly. He had never been summoned the headmaster’s study before. It was a medium sized room, dominated unsurprisingly by a large oak desk. At one end of the room were two rather decrepit armchairs and a small occasional table. Three walls were lined with shelves and glass fronted bookcases. The fourth wall almost entirely comprised mullioned windows of dark glass. In one corner an umbrella stand was unadorned except for three crook-handled rattan canes that leaned limply.

Ralph had never seen a school punishment cane before. Sure, he had seen drawings of them in comics like the Beano and he had seen an old film on television where a headmaster administered six-of-the-best. The camera stayed on the boy’s face throughout so there wasn’t much to see. Ralph wondered what a caning would feel like. Pretty painful probably. It would have to be otherwise what was the point of it all?

Dr Anderson rose from his chair interrupting Ralph’s thoughts. The headmaster was making his stately way across the study. He was a tall, upright man with broad shoulders and a torso that narrowed to the waist. He had been a keen sportsman in his younger days and still liked to keep in shape.

Three pairs of eyes followed him on his travels. He paused at the umbrella stand and reached forward. The rattling sound of the canes as he moved them seemed to Ralph to echo around the study. Dr Anderson pulled the thinnest cane free and took it in his hands. He flexed it into a perfect arc and half-heartedly swished it through the air. His face frowned; he returned it to its moorings. The doctor was well acquainted with all his canes. He had several more locked away in a cupboard but he liked to keep three on display close a hand, ready for action. He chose a second cane from the umbrella stand and repeated the flexing and swishing. He liked to take his time, he thought it intimidated any boy waiting nervously for proceedings to begin. He grimaced again and returned the cane. His shoulders heaved as he emitted a sigh so deep one might be led to believe the poor man carried the weight of the whole world on his shoulders. What a responsibility he held, he was saying, trying to guide the young along the rocky road to manhood.

He took up the third cane and turned to face the three miscreants. It was no longer than the others but was thicker and more dense. It was a little over three feet long (not counting the curved handle), yellowy-beige in colour and had notches every three or four inches along its length. Dr Anderson flexed it thoughtfully in his hands, as if he had never seen the thing before. His lips pursed, he seemed to be considering if this rod was fit for the job. He tested its weight, pointed it at the three anxious teenagers and swished it through the air. It was a vicious swipe and it made a terrific whooshing! sound as it flew. Ralph now had no doubt at all that the beating he was about to receive would be very painful indeed.

The headmaster was ready. “You boys,” he gestured to Ralph’s two pals, “turn around and face the wall.” Ralph’s face paled. He was to go first. “Rowcastle,” he glared at Ralph. “Take off your blazer, hang it there,” he waved the cane at the umbrella stand. Ralph’s knees weakened, a fear he had never experienced before in his life gripped him. This was really happening. It wasn’t a dream, he wouldn’t suddenly hear his mum’s voice, “Wake up Ralphy you’ll be late for school.”

He stood rooted. “Come on boy, I haven’t got all day!” Dr Anderson’s patience had been tested beyond its very low level of endurance. Ralph’s fingers trembled as he fumbled at the buttons of his blazer. Why couldn’t he get them to work? At last the front of the jacket was open. He slipped it off his shoulders and hung it up.

He turned to see the headmaster standing by an old, worn armchair. He pointed his cane to a spot on he grey carpet. “Stand there.” As if in a trance, Ralph shuffled forward. In years ahead, recalling this afternoon, Ralph would say he couldn’t remember too much of what happened next. His first ever caning was something of a blur. If questioned on the matter, Dr Anderson might say something similar. He might not be able to recall thrashing Ralph Rowcastle; after all, he might say in mitigation, he was one of three boys he beat at the same time and was probably the sixth or seventh boy to go across the back of the armchair that day. Certainly, a day never passed without Dr Anderson swishing his cane across a bevy of bottoms.

“Bend over the chair.”

Ralph’s pal, Paul Thompson, could stand it no longer. He had obediently set his face to the wall as instructed. He too had never been caned in his life. His heart was thumping so fast he was certain it would burst through his chest. Blood was coursing through his body. He couldn’t wait to get started. Surreptitiously, he turned his head to sneak a peek. His headmaster did not notice, he had other things on his mind. Paul watched as Ralph hesitated before moving. Paul wouldn’t know what to do either. “Bend over the chair”; what did that mean exactly? Paul watched his pal stare down at the seat of the chair. He was a tall boy and would easily fit over the back of the chair with some room to spare. Was he expected to rest his stomach on the back of the chair and with his knees bent present a jutting backside to the headmaster? Perhaps if he fell all the way forward, Paul thought, and reached over and gripped the front of the seat cushion, his back would be arched with his bottom presented round and firm.

Ralph had other ideas, he simply stooped forward and grabbed the wooden arms of the chair. He spread his legs so that his backside was hardly curved at all. A feeling that Paul could not understand struck him. His pal was hardly bent over at all. He might just as well be standing. Suddenly he felt disappointed, cheated even.

The headmaster seemed satisfied. Paul had a perfect view of Ralph’s backside. The boy’s buttocks trembled as Dr Anderson took his aim. He stood a cane’s length to Ralph’s left and tap-tap-tapped it across the eighteen-year-old’s left buttock cheek. Satisfied that he had his mark, the headmaster lifted the cane up and drew it to about shoulder height, then he brought it back with great force, making a perfect arc before it crashed across the very centre of both cheeks. Ralph stamped his feet, wriggled his hips, heaved his shoulders, raised his head. A long drawn out hissing noise escaped his lips, it sounded like a steam engine setting down.

“Keep still boy!” Dr Anderson growled. With great difficulty, Ralph regained his position. Paul’s temples throbbed as he watched intently as the headmaster made his preparations for cut number two. He swiped the cane through empty air while he waited for Ralph to compose himself. Satisfied that he was ready, he tapped the cane against Ralph’s solid backside, this time an inch or so below the first. Whoppp! It landed with an upward swing. Ralph cried out a terrific yelp! and did the stomping and twisting thing again.

“Don’t make such a fuss!” Dr Anderson stood, feet apart flexing the cane between his hands. Paul gasped. That hurt. His pal was in agony. Soon it would be Paul’s turn.

The third stroke was aimed higher and the fourth lower. Ralph was weeping openly. He threw his head back and yowled. He made no attempt to conceal it. He was a thoroughly beaten boy. Dr Anderson paced the study in irritation. He despised a boy who couldn’t take a lightly laid on Six.

Ralph settled. His humiliation was total, Paul reckoned. He watched the headmaster line up swipe number five, anxious to ignore the slight swelling inside his tight cotton underpants. Ralph’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the wooden arm of the chair for dear life. “Aggghhhhh!” The cane stuck the underside of the cheeks, just where they meet the thighs. He wouldn’t be able to sit down in comfort for many hours to come.

Ralph’s breathing was almost as rapid as Paul’s. The onlooker couldn’t control his own dick, now standing to attention like a soldier on sentry duty.

The last one. The headmaster hadn’t announced a tariff; how many strokes he would administer, but it wouldn’t be more than six – would it? Six-of-the-best; wasn’t that what they called it?

Ralph’s brutalised bottom shook with trepidation. Paul saw the headmaster change his stance. He moved closer to his pal’s proffered posterior. Paul’s eyes widened. He realised what the good doctor was up to. He had placed the cane at an angle across both buttocks. It lay from the bottom of the left cheek across to the top of the right; it was a perfect diagonal. “The brute!” Paul thought as the cane rose and lashed across Ralph’s backside crossing each of the five previously delivered strokes and reigniting the pain in them all and then adding some.

Ralph shot to his feet, his hands clutching at his burning bum. Simultaneously, he bent forward double desperately trying to catch his breath. When that made no difference he jumped up and down on the spot, like footballers did when they were trying to run off an injury. When that didn’t work, he resorted to hopping from left foot to right. The headmaster glared at the spectacle with unconcealed distain.

“Bah!” he growled, “Stand by the wall. “Thompson take his place.” Paul shuffled forward, hands clutched in front of his groin. Eagerly, he dived over the back of the chair, head low, firm, round bottom high, feet spread, and waited.

At the bus stop, the bus had at last arrived. It would take him to his village of Aston Budleigh; but not to his home. Not quite yet. Ralph had an appointment with Rev Crick, the local vicar, when he would be expected to atone for his rudeness and disobedience to his widowed mother.

If I don’t leave right now, I’ll be late. I have to report at Mr Gardner’s study at four. I grab my blue-and-gold school blazer from the hook and head through the door.

I run all the way and make it with a minute to spare.

He is waiting for me in his study. I know the drill. Knock on the wooden panel, wait for his call to “enter,” take a deep breath, turn the handle, open the door, enter and be prepared to get a sore arse.

….

So what’s keeping that boy? I heard him arrive outside my study door ages ago. I am sweating a little and my breath is coming in short pants. I have been waiting for about fifteen minutes. I sit at my desk surveying the room. The study is a decent size but there aren’t many furnishings. There’s my desk of course. It’s quite small and functional, but I don’t use it for punishing the boys. I have an armless black vinyl chair that’s perfect for the job. A boy goes over its back and grabs the seat at the front. He makes a perfect target.

I’ve already selected two canes from my extensive collection. I’m not sure which one I’ll use. They’re both a little longer than three feet. They have curved handles of course; they wouldn’t be school canes without the curved handles. Both are made of authentic rattan. Very supple. Very swishy. I have placed them on a small table close to my desk. I’ll make my final choice at the last minute.

I am ready. And, now I wait.

There’s a timid knock at the door. I can hardly hear it.

“Enter.” Spoken, not shouted.

The door opens slowly and in comes Hutchins. He stands in the doorframe, unsure what to do.

“Close the door boy. Stand in front of my desk.”

He is perfect. His blue blazer with gold trimmed braiding is immaculate. He stands in front of me, not quite to attention, hands slightly behind his back. His knees bent. I take in the view. His crisply-ironed white shirt. The blue-and-gold striped tie, knotted tightly at his neck. His charcoal grey trousers have a crease so sharp you could cut your finger. His black shoes gleam.

“Hutchins, you again. This is the fourth time you have been summoned to my study since Christmas.”

“Yes, Sir,” meekly said.

“And, now we have drinking alcohol. You are a sixth-form boy. You know very well, drinking alcohol is against the rules.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Then, why did you do it?”

“I don’t know Sir.”

“Don’t know Sir. That really isn’t good enough is it Hutchins?”

“Yes Sir, I mean no Sir.”

“Not good enough. In the past weeks you have been before me for smoking and for being out of bounds.”

“Yes Sir.”

“This is not good enough. You are a senior boy; you should be setting an example.”

“Sorry Sir.”

“You will be. Now face the wall.”

Arms still behind his back, Hutchins walks to the wall. Without being instructed, he puts his hands on his head.

I stay seated. Let him stew a while. A full minute passes and by now Hutchins, unsure what is happening, turns to look over at me.

“Face the wall boy. I shall tell you when you may move.”

“Sorry Sir.”

I take this as a cue to prepare myself for the beating I am to administer to the boy.

I pick up the two canes and bring them to my desk. I test one after the other for their whippiness by swishing them through the air. A good cane should bite into a boy’s bottom and curl around as it does so. A good stripe is one that fully covers both the boy’s cheeks, so causing maximum sting.

Hutchins hears me moving about and I can see he desperately wants to turn again to see what is going on. But he resists the temptation.

Another minute passes. “Right Hutchins, let’s have you out the front here.”

The boy positions himself once again in front of my desk. Apprehensively, he eyes the two canes lying across the desk.

“Now, boy I want to make a clear example of you. Drinking alcohol and absconding from the school will not be tolerated. I shall deal with you severely. Do you understand?”

“Yes Sir.”

“That will mean six on your trousers and six with them down. Do you understand?”

He swallows hard. “Yes Sir.”

“Right boy. Take your blazer off and put it on the table.”

He does as he was told, revealing his sparkling white shirt. The creases down the long sleeves are as sharp as those in his trousers.

I point to the black vinyl chair. “Now, bend over that chair.”

Hutchins is a wonderful sight. In one athletic movement his hips slide over the back of the chair and he grasps the front of the seat, a hand on the each of the corners. Blood rushes to his face, making his cheeks rosy pink. His other cheeks will be a darker pink by the time I’ve finished.

I pick up the dark yellow rattan cane and give it a few practice swishes. Hutchins turns his head to see.

“Face the front boy. You’ll find out soon enough what’s going on back here.” The headmaster had made a little joke.

I am nearly ready.

“Legs further apart boy. Up over more. Head down, bottom high.”

He pushes himself a little higher over the back of the chair, raising his backside a couple of inches more. Perfect. His grey trousers are stretched so tightly across the buttocks I can see the outline of his underpants.

I stand a cane’s length to Hutchins’ left side and lay the cane across the centre of his buttocks. Gently I tap the cotton trousers. Hutchins holds his breath as I raise the rattan cane until it is behind me, pause, and then bring it down with as much strength as I can muster across the vulnerable buttocks.

Whooop!!! A stinger. His eyes pop and he puffs out both cheeks.

I don’t believe in half measures. When I beat a boy, I do it properly. I make sure it hurts. There is no point in giving a boy a beating if it doesn’t. The rod shouldn’t just skim the top of the skin it should bite deep into the flesh. I cover the whole area, from the crown of the bum cheeks to the middle.

I wait about fifteen seconds before applying cut number two, so he feels the full effect of each stroke before the next arrives. I watch, fascinated, as the buttocks jerk in a paroxysm of pain. This stroke seems to hurt much more than the first and I can see sweat forming at the boy’s temples.

His thigh muscles and bottom are tense but Hutchins is stoical. That’s the way I like it. My schoolboys should take it like men. I don’t want them screaming and shouting and jumping up and down. Stay perfectly still. At least as still as is possible under the circumstances and let me get on with my business.

As cut number four bites home, Hutchins’ face screws up with agony and he lets out a yelp. His knuckles are turning white as he grips the chair ever more tightly. Four thin lines are clearly visible in the dark grey trousers, each in parallel with the others and no more than a half an inch apart. I am an expert caner, let nobody deny that.

By stroke six he is openly weeping.

I pause for breath. Hutchins is finding breathing a little difficult too.

“Stand up boy.”

Unsteadily he rises from the chair, still facing forward.

“Face me boy.”

He turns around and stands in front of me, but he cannot look me in the eye. His gaze is firmly fixed at the red patterned rug beneath his feet.

“I said the punishment would be severe and I meant it. Now, take down your trousers.”

With his gaze still averted, Hutchins reaches for the buckle of his belt. His hands are shaking and with some difficulty he unfastens the clasp. I watch intently as he undoes the button at the top of the trousers and then the four buttons on his fly.

The trousers slip to his thighs revealing his tight underpants, as sparking white as his shirt.

“Right boy. Back over.”

Hutchins swivels to his right and flops over the chair offering up his bottom. Unbidden he spreads his legs and raises his backside high.

His shirt has a long tail and I take a moment to pull it up. Hutchins raises his body and I am able to get the shirt over the boy’s back as far as his shoulder blades.

I tap the cane, finding my aim as Hutchins’ body visibly flexes. Swishhhhhh! Number seven has him sobbing. Number nine crashes into the centre of his bottom. Though he stays over the chair, his feet start to beat a frenzied dance, as his hips twist and squirm.

I can see blood staining his brilliant white underpants. I never set out deliberately to wound a boy, but it is a hazard of the job. But, I never give more than a dozen at a session and never on the bare, so the boy is able to recover quite quickly.

The final two strokes are exemplary. The objective is to cause as much pain as possible, but with the minimum of exertion on my part. My experience tells me if you are able to land the final two diagonally across the buttocks they will cross the existing welts and reignite the pain the boy is already suffering.

So, that’s what I do. One diagonal cut from the left and the final slash from the right.

Hutchins is howling. There is no other word to describe it. His feet are drumming on the floor, but, to his credit, he stays in position, submissive to the end.

I put the cane down on my desk and go round and stand behind Hutchins and briefly survey the twitching buttocks in front of me. Hutchins’s entire body is spasmodically jerking.

“It’s over. You can get up now. I think you have learned your lesson, haven’t you?”

Hutchins feels so sore that he doesn’t want to move.

“Hurry up! I haven’t got all day.”

Hutchins stands up and begins rubbing his glowing backside, feeling the swelling of each weal. “Stop that this instance.” Startled, he pulls his hands away. As he does this I can see a bulge in the front of his pants.

Tears are flowing down his cheeks and a little snot trickles from his nose.

“Now get dressed. You are dismissed.”

….

I closed the door of the study behind me. I was more or less in control of my feelings now, and was massaging my injured rump as vigorously as I could, trying (I suppose) to rub away the pain. It doesn’t work, I can tell you!

It was difficult to walk. My bottom throbbed like mad and I had an aching erection. I couldn’t wait to get home and rub away at the both of them. I picked up an envelope from the hall table and went to find my bicycle. I thought I was too sore to ride home so I’d have to wheel it.

After a couple of minutes the pain in my buttocks had eased a little, but not my throbbing erection. I decided to risk it, mounted my bicycle and in considerable discomfort rode home.

Back in my room I peeled off my bloodied underpants and examined the damage in the mirror. My scalded bum was corrugated with twelve distinct welts. Blood was clotting at the intersection where the two diagonal cuts had crossed the other ten. There were bruises around the edges of my buttocks where the tips of the rattan cane landed and they would probably get worse before they got better.

I was a right mess. That’s the big problem with a caning, it leaves marks and if the beating had been severe they could stay for a very long time. Spankings are best, even ones with a slipper or a hairbrush. They left bruises, but not welts or cuts, and cleared up pretty quickly.

I had a problem. I had a date to see one of my other gentlemen next Wednesday and he would not be happy if I turned up with a pre-bruised bum. They liked it to be lily-white, as it were; it was their prerogative to whack it red, black and blue. After all, that’s what they were paying for.

The headmaster always enjoyed the annual Old Boy’s Reunion; especially the canings he dished out.

It had become a ritual; two of the most revered Old Boys would not leave until they had each received ‘a proper’ six-of-the-best from the headmaster. When some years ago it had first been put to him that he should order them to his study, lecture them on their misdeeds and then command each to, “bend over that chair,” he thought he was having his leg pulled.

It was the school’s Bursar who raised it. He was one of the most venerable members of staff and had even been at the school when the Old Boys were pupils. The headmaster thought it was a bizarre idea, a bit kinky even, but had to respect the Bursar and hear him out.

“It goes on in schools across the land, you’ll be surprised,” the Bursar said. And the headmaster was.

“What harm can it do?”

Corporal punishment in schools had been made illegal at least fifteen years previously and the headmaster had never beaten a boy in anger. The two Old Boys were at least ten years older than he; it was absurd. One was a High Court Judge and the other a member of the House of Lords for pity’s sake.

“Headmaster, if you humour them I am sure we can get a new chemistry lab out of this,” the Bursar told him.

The headmaster laughed out loud at the suggestion; he had forgotten that each of the Old Boys were great benefactors of the school and had donated substantial amounts of money in the past and the Bursar was probably right; if he indulged them now they would give even more in the future. He agreed to go through with it.

The headmaster’s study needed surprisingly few alterations; it hadn’t changed much in the years since the Old Boys were pupils. The oak-panelled walls remained and the desk was surely as old as the hills; but the computer had to go.

The headmaster was embarrassed about having to go through this charade and wanted as few people as possible to know, but he had to rope in Mr Higgins, the school historian. He had set up a small school museum with mementos such as photographs of past headmasters and school rugby teams; but it also contained memorabilia including an old school desk, a blackboard and easel and, oh glory!, the tall thin cupboard that once stood in the corner of the headmaster’s study; including its contents: a dozen whippy rattan canes.

Higgins was alarmingly eager to supply the headmaster with everything he needed. He had indeed been an enthusiastic beater of boys’ bottoms when the law still allowed and he fervently hoped the legislators might someday reverse the decision. Perhaps, Lord Barnaby might be prevailed upon to raise the issue in Parliament.

Higgins had also kept the punishment books, where records of canings were kept. They dated back nearly a hundred years. He took great delight in reading them and recollecting the Good Old Days when boys showed their masters proper respect. And if they didn’t, they would soon be signing their names in the punishment book and nursing throbbing backsides.

Higgins’ name appeared many times in the book. On one day he had caned six boys for six different offences. One was Rodgers T. E.; he was in the sixth-form and thought he was immune to the rules. Higgins soon disabused him of that idea. He had been found in possession of a bottle of beer, despite the strict no-alcohol rules. Higgins confiscated the Watneys Pale Ale and took Rodgers to a classroom where he ordered him to bend across a school desk.

Try doing that today, Higgins thought, it’s all lawyers and childrens’ rights. But, back then, Rodgers knew he had no choice and despite being eighteen years old he went over the desk without complaint to show Higgins his arse for six top notch stingers from the master’s favourite ‘senior’ cane. He still had that cane. Rodgers was in some distress, the beating had been that severe, but he took it like a man and Higgins respected him for that. Later, alone in his digs, reminiscing the day’s events, Higgins enjoyed the boy’s beer.

The headmaster now had all that he needed, but he knew he had a problem. His two Old Boys were presumably very experienced receivers of the cane, but he had never even seen one, never mind used one. They would expect a proper thrashing, not just a tap on the bottom for old time’s sake.

Once more, Higgins had the solution. He was an expert caner and although it had been many years since he last lashed a rattan into a boy’s stretched trousers, it was surely like riding a bike; something you never forgot how to do. Let him be the one to administer the Old Boys beatings, he suggested, fervently hoping the headmaster would agree.

“No, I fear it has to be me, they seem to insist it is a headmaster’s caning.”

“Oh,” Higgins replied trying to hide his disappointment. But, he explained a “headmaster’s caning” did not only mean a caning from the headmaster; to schoolboys throughout history and all over the British Empire, a “headmaster’s caning” meant an exemplary severe thrashing; something to be dreaded.

The headmaster did not like the sound of this. What could he do?

“I can teach you how to use the cane to inflict maximum pain.”

The headmaster was grateful, but how could this be done? Would it be enough simply to whack the cane down into a cushion? Didn’t they need a real person to be on the receiving end?

Yes, Higgins agreed, they did, and he knew exactly the right person for the job, but it would be tricky to explain this to the headmaster.

“I have an acquaintance who might be willing to act as your guinea pig, so to speak,” Higgins did not want to say too much about Timothy Hutchins, a young man who hired out his backside to clients willing to pay for the pleasure of beating it black and blue.

The headmaster considered discretion in the matter to be paramount and was unwilling to bring a total stranger to the school for the headmaster to practice his caning technique. That’s how the headmaster met with Timothy one evening at Higgins’ dismal apartment in town.

It took the headmaster no more than an hour to progress from novice to expert caner. Timothy was a trooper, he did not object when asked to remove his trousers and underpants so the headmaster could see exactly where his cane stokes landed. At first, he was way off target, but soon he was landing them exactly where he wanted.

With accuracy sorted, the headmaster practiced severity. He was alarmed at the damage a single lash of the cane could inflict on flesh and began to doubt the wisdom of the whole enterprise. Could he really do this to the two Old Boys, even if they wanted him to?

“Don’t worry, headmaster. The bottom will not mark if the boys are wearing trousers.” Higgins knew he was telling a lie, but it was the only way to make sure the headmaster went through with it.

So, suitably prepared, the headmaster awaited the Old Boys’ Reunion.

The plan was surprisingly simple. The Old Boys wanted to be punished for committing real offences. What could be easier than to catch them smoking cigarettes? In the old days that would get them a caning from their housemaster, not the head. But, repeat offenders would find them on the list for a headmaster’s special caning. And, truly, both had been caned at school for smoking at least once.

Higgins had the pleasure of saying, “Barnaby, Bennett, report to the headmaster’s study. At once.”

The two boys walked in silence through the school quadrangle, into North Building and up the narrow staircase to the corridor leading to the headmaster’s study. They were reliving times in the past when they had last made this journey. Time can be deceptive. This wasn’t today, for them, this was thirty-five years ago.

They reached the study door and halted. As if in a dream each checked that their appearance was immaculate; shoes cleaned, ties straightened. Each was wearing the blue and yellow striped school blazer of their youth. Many of the Old Boys had these blazers and liked to dress up for the reunion day. Some secretly wished they could complete the outfit with their grey flannel short trousers, long grey knee socks and school cap, but these were not clothes that could easily be worn in public.

The two boys shuffled their feet, seemingly unwilling to take the next step.

“You knock.”

“No, you.”

“Oh come on,” Lord Barnaby, or now, plain Barnaby, C. T. E. knocked.

“Enter!”

They held their breath. Then Bennett took the handle, turned it and opened the door.

The headmaster sat behind his huge oak desk, resplendent in an old fashioned academic gown.

“Stand there, both of you,” he pointed to the carpet. The headmaster was used to hectoring misbehaved boys and his stern lectures were well rehearsed. He had giving tongue-lashings to many of them across the years. They did very little good. The truth was that it was impossible to punish a boy beyond giving impositions or lines. This was a boarding school and the pupils had very little liberty, so being placed in detention meant very little to them.

Since being introduced to the cane, and encouraged by Higgins, the headmaster had begun to believe that corporal punishment might be beneficial to his school. He could easily think of six or seven repeat offenders among his present boys who would profit from a sore backside. A cane laid on with force would soon buck their ideas up a bit. All it would need was one visit to the headmaster’s study for a ‘proper’ caning while bent across the desk, or over the back of the armchair. Six strokes whacked into their trouser seats; they wouldn’t be back in a hurry after that.

The headmaster eyed the two grown men standing before him: Barnaby and Bennett. He felt like laughing at the absurdity of it.

He picked up a piece of paper from the desk and read from it. “Smoking again. You have both been caned by your housemaster for this before. Is that true?”

Mumbled, “Yes, Sir,” from both of them.

“Barnaby, you have been caned twice before.”

“Sir,” said with real misery from his Lordship.

The headmaster gave his “cigarettes are bad for you,” lecture.

Only yesterday he had delivered a different lecture to two fifteen-year-old fifth-formers; their rudeness and arrogance to their masters had resulted in a visit to the headmaster. But, they had seemed unmoved by his words. He was certain they would be back on his carpet before too long. Oh, how he now wished it was them in front of him and he could whack some manners into them through their backsides.

Oddly, in his imagination, Barnaby became Probert and Bennett became Turner. No longer were they fifty-something middle-aged men, they really were two snotty fifteen-year-old schoolboys, deserving of a thrashing.

Yes, he would certainly give these boys the thrashing they so richly deserved.

Probert, you first, he thought, but said out loud, “Bennett you stand at the back of the chair. Barnaby, face the wall; hands on head.”

Meekly, both boys did as instructed.

The headmaster picked up a crook-handled rattan cane and thoughtfully bent it between his two hands.

“We shall see how you like the feel of this, Bennett,” without intention, the headmaster was speaking in an old-fashioned, upper class accent; like something out of a 1930s film: he had suddenly become Mr Chips.

“Bend over boy.” Bennett, expertly positioned himself; head down, bottom high, legs apart. As with Higgins, a caned boy never forgets how to present his backside to the satisfaction of the headmaster and his cane. Could it really be thirty-five years since his last headmaster’s caning?

Right Probert, you have been asking for this for a very long time. The headmaster raised the cane and brought it crashing down across Bennett’s trouser seat with great force. The boy gasped, but stayed in position.

“One Sir, thank you, Sir,” Bennett was reciting a ritual from days long past.

He thanked the headmaster for each of the five stingers that followed. The headmaster knew he had done a good job, his cane had left marks across the seat of the boy’s trousers and it was clear that the cuts had fallen neatly in a half-inch group across the centre of his buttocks. The headmaster would not know but the cane had bitten into the fleshy cheeks so deeply that welts had already risen.

It was with an extremely throbbing backside that Bennett rose from the chair and stood by his friend, hands on head, facing the wall. He desperately wanted to rub away the agony in his aching bottom, but the ancient schoolboy ritual did not allow this. Only when he was dismissed from the study would he be able to show that he was in any pain. Until then, he had to tough it out.

The headmaster was enjoying himself. He swished the cane through the air a couple of times, before intoning the words all schoolboys once dreaded. “Bend over that chair.”

Barnaby was across the chair in an instant, eager to feel the lash of the cane. The headmaster eyed his target; he saw the backside of fifteen-year-old Geoffrey Turner, raised his cane high and let fly.

“One Sir, Thank you Sir,” his Lordship intoned.

He took his six-of-the-best like the man he was. The headmaster put all his effort into cracking his whippy rattan into the proffered buttocks.

“Phew!!!!” Barnaby thought, but could not say. This was the best thrashing he had ever had in his entire life; at school or after.

“Get up boy. Both of you stand in front of my desk.” The two punished schoolboys shuffled on the carpet, hands behind their backs, sneakily patting their raw buttocks with their thumbs.

The headmaster scolded them some more and dismissed them.

They sauntered from the study, as if they had no cares in the world. Once the door closed behind them, each boy jumped up and down on the spot, rubbing furiously at his buttocks.

“Crikey! What a whacking!” Bennett said.

“Quick let’s find the bogs. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” his friend responded.

And, that’s how it started. Every year they return to his study for six-of-the-best and each time the headmaster chooses from among the present crop, the boys he would dearly love to thrash with his cane.